Dear Uptight Seattleite,

What office supplies should we re-order?

Co-working Carl

Dear Carl,

I’m going to back a dark horse on this one: Rubber bands. They sort of fly under the office-supplies radar, don’t they? They’re certainly not as prominent as copy-machine paper or white-board markers. But when you really need one, there’s no substitute for a rubber band. Like when you’ve got a teetering stack of letters and you want to make it a tidy bundle so badly it makes your brain itch. That’s a bad feeling. It’s a rubber-band-shaped hole in your spirit, is what it is.

I certainly support the decision to start ordering the environmentally friendly ones, the Green-Os, even though they tend to break. Can I tell you something, though? I have a whole box of the old ones in my desk. So if you need one sometime, feel free to ask. No, I’m not going to “just give you a handful of them.” I said if you need one sometime, I’d be more than happy to give you one at that time. But try to keep under a couple bands a month.

No, I’m not hoarding. That is not correct. Ten dry-erase markers in your bottom drawer, that’s hoarding. Like, ahem, she whom you know whom to whom I refer whom! This box of rubber bands, on the other hand, is no more than the amount I might reasonably be expected to need in the course of my job. I know the policy. I’m definitely in fair territory here.

Ooh! You know what we should order? As a gag? Some of those jumbo paper clips. Then at the end of Larry’s next meeting, we can say, “Oops, there’s one more thing,” then take out a big stack of papers labeled “Lawsuit Against Larry” with one of the jumbo clips holding it together.

What do you mean you’re “not feeling it”? What does that expression even mean? OK, fine. If you don’t want to lighten your chi with the therapeutic application of humor, that’s the path you choose, my friend. But oh! I almost forgot! Do you have like 45 minutes this afternoon to help me with that PowerPoint presentation?

Dear Uptight Seattleite,

Has this ever happened to you? You’re on a camping trip with a bunch of your buddies when the following exchange occurs:

Buddy A: To talk to you is to be reminded of who I really am.

Buddy B: You mean a fucking faggot?

Then they both pause a beat before falling on each other’s shoulders in spasms of helpless laughter, and you realize the whole exchange is rooted in some shared personal mythology that you’ll never understand?

Alienated Terrestrial

Dear Terrestrial,

You’ve just told the first part of a little story I like to call The Shadowy Complications of Guy Love. There are some male friendships that are indeed a wonder to behold. And they should be celebrated. But after a certain point the effortlessly witty banter of these friends begins to grate on those relegated to the role of appreciative audience. The wisdom of the ages is clear in this case. The Greek chorus of “Moderation in All Things” is joined by the bell of the Buddha’s funky sax pointing straight down the center of the Middle Way. That is to say, there are clear rules about just how much attention should be paid to any one guy in a guy group, or to any subset of said group. These rules should be applied according to the overall makeup of the group.

For example, if the group is composed of guys who are all from the same town plus one guy who isn’t, there should be an “Aren’t we all so boring with our war stories?” approach that gallantly pushes the talking stick into the hands of the outsider. If it’s a mixed group that contains two high-school buddies, these two shouldn’t push the favor of the group’s attention beyond a few classic stories around the campfire.

The concluding chapter in this shadowy tale will be determined by your ability to listen to your heart and head with a balance that honors the manner in which the Great Spirit Herself navigates her canoe along the blue-and-white sunrise logo of our new Hope. Sorry! I’m getting a little silly now. It turns out a week of this Hope business can do a man good in ways as thrilling and unexpected as a helicopter rescue. A man in these times may hopefully (ha!) be forgiven for lapsing into the happy gibberish of a rescued person on the floor of this helicopter.

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